


Latkes Are NOT a Side Dish

by QueenRiley



Category: Power Rangers S.P.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3126269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenRiley/pseuds/QueenRiley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bridge celebrates the fifth night of Chanukah by learning a few things from his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Latkes Are NOT a Side Dish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiirotsubasa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiirotsubasa/gifts).



Thursday December 18, 2025 – 5th Night of Chanukah

“This isn't working,” he said. Bridge poked at the plate with his misshapen soggy little latkes. The oil spit and splattered everywhere. It didn't look anything like when his mother made them.

“You’re doing fine. Turn the heat up so they aren't in the pan as long,” his mother said. Bridge did as he was told and reached into the bowl to form another latke. There was starchy water pooling all around his strands of potato. 

“Yours aren't this wet. Latkes aren't supposed to be wet. Unless you cover them with cheap applesauce. But that’s secondhand wet. Not latke wet. And sour cream is better anyway.” He sighed. 

“Squeeze more water out of them and flatten them a bit in the pan. They may not be pretty but they’ll taste just fine. At least you haven’t set my kitchen on fire!” Bridge wasn't buying her reassurance. He glared. She just smiled at him.

“Keep practicing and in a few years you’ll make some person want to clog their arteries for your latkes. And yours might even be shul-worthy for tomorrow’s Chanukah party.” She pinched his cheeks and cooed at him like her mother used to when he was small and the only grandchild.

“I understand now. You’re not teaching me my heritage. You’re just trying to get out of cooking! Slave labor! I’m calling Child Protective Services,” he joked. His mother didn't buy it.

“Sweetheart, you do that. I’d like to see what they say when a 21 year old reports he’s an abused child because his mother made him cook the side dish to a holiday meal.” Bridge flipped the latkes in the pan and turned, incredulous.

“Side dish? Side dish! Latkes are no side dish! They are the main course! The most important part of the Chanukah dinner table. Without latkes, there is no holiday! Mother, how dare you even suggest, in front of their delicate ears no less, that latkes are mere supporting characters?” She rolled her eyes but took the now full plate of latkes to the dinner table. Bridge turned the stove off and drained the oil out of the pan.

When he made it to the dining room, his mother was already doling out the food onto their plates. She’d been right. His latkes weren't pretty but they tasted alright. Not as good as hers, but a definite improvement to the burnt ones he’d made the night before. And the raw ones he’d made the night before that.

After dinner, she pushed him away from the dishes and towards the living room.

“I’ll clean up later. The sun’s down. It’s time to light the candles.” He didn't take much convincing. This was always his favourite part.

He pulled six little candles out of the box and lined them up while his mother made sure the table by the window was cleared off. Bridge gently fit the candles into their little holders and it was only after he’d placed them all that he realized he’d only pulled out the ranger colours. The old ranger colours, from back when his team had still been whole and together. He’d even ordered them according to the colour rank. He suddenly felt a little tight in his chest so he sat back and passed the matches to his mother.

“You light tonight?” he asked, his voice catching a little. She nodded and he was glad she knew him better than anybody. She wouldn't ask why he needed to clear his throat so much all of a sudden. She lit the chanukiah, the shamash spreading it’s small light to the other five candles. On their own, they weren't much. Together, though, and reflecting off the big bay window, they lit up the whole living room.

They sang the blessing together, as they’d always done.

He leaned back against his mother, his head on her shoulder, and hugged her arm tight like he had when he was small. She played with his hair. She was the only person allowed to touch him. She was the only one that didn't make it hurt.

“We have a lot to be grateful for this year,” she whispered.

“Mmm,” he agreed.

“Another war is over. Another war is won by the little guy, the underdog nobody thought could do it.”

“We weren't fighting for the right to be Jewish, Mama,” he sighed. She did that a lot. 

“No, you were fighting for survival. You were fighting to preserve our right to live, to be ourselves, to rule ourselves. Is that really so different from what the Maccabees did so long ago? Just because it was human versus alien instead of Jew versus Roman doesn't mean the fight wasn't the same. Well, similar, at least.”

“At least we didn't use terrorist tactics,” he agreed. She chuckled. 

“Y’know, for all that we have to be glad for, it’s okay to be sad that it’s over.” Bridge shifted a little. He wouldn't look up at her. She kept twirling his hair. “Friends move on, go their own way, but they’re still our friends. And some good times were had, even with all the bad going on. A fight like that, it builds strong bonds. They’ll always be there, Bridgey. They won’t ever go away, not really.”

Bridge didn't say anything. He didn't have the words. He didn't need them. He understood, and so did she. He kissed his mother’s arm, smelled the subtle lavender scent of her hand lotion, and thanked a god he wasn't sure he believed in that she was his and he was hers.

They watched the candles burn down the rest of the way in silence.


End file.
